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AT LARGE IN GERMANY 



" Die Welt durchaus ist lieblich anzuschauen, 
Forzuglich aber schon die Welt der Dichter ; 
Auf bunten, hellen oder silbergrauen 

Gefilden, Tag und Nacht, erglanzen Lichter. " 

— Goethe, 



At Large in Germany 

A Glance at Some of its Beauties 

and People Through 

American Eyes 

A* 
By Robert Bolwell 



The Mediator Printery 

Cleveland, O. 

1915 



v\ 



Copyrighted 1915, by Robert Bolwell. All rights reserved. 



JUN 3 1915 
©CI.A4()6132 



> 



-u 



TO 

• MOTHER NEVEL." 

THE UNMENTIONED HEROINE 

OF THAT VERY EVENTFUL SUMMER 

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED 



/ 



Of this edition but Three Hundred Copies were 
printed. This Book is Number *Ja^ 



CONTENTS 

Page 

Part I.— The Voyage .15 

Part II.— 'Round About Germany 37 

Part III. — Among the Peasants . 61 

Part IV.— The Retreat Before Mars . 83 



FOREWORD 

The ego appears in this volume with almost auto- 
biographical frequency. To prevent alarm, there- 
fore, a word of explanation may be necessary. The 
writer's presence was vital to the impressions here 
recorded, but, at the same time, he had a double role 
to play. For, in addition to being his own insignifi- 
cant self, bent upon his own enjoyment, he had to 
represent, in all things that entered his notebook, 
that vague, mysterious nonentity — the Average 
American. 

It is this latter character, this alter ego, who 
is so talkative about his ideas and his impressions in 
the following. It is the Average American who 
sees, who enjoys, and who scoffs. It is true that no 
one (not even the author himself) cares about the 
personal ego; when he shaves, with whom he bunks 
at night, and how he enjoys his dinners. But when 
this important figure, the Average American, so often 
mentioned of late but never met, so much quoted 
but never heard, when he is near unto seasickness, 
or when he is bored, we listen attentively. Nothing 
in the life of this great hero is too insignificant for 
our notice. 

In this light then, perhaps the account of the 
Average American's summer in Germany will seem 
all too brief and fragmentary. If so, it is because 
the true first person was too busy with his own 
affairs to Boswellize the hero-speaker of this tale. 



Part I. — The Voyage 



THE VOYAGE 

IN beginning this account, I do so in defiance of 
the trite words of the worthy poet, John Donne, 
on this and similar chatterings: 

"My silence (give) to any who abroad hath been." 
Perhaps this stern gentleman did not pos- 
sess the spirit of wonder with which I was endowed 
— or more likely, perhaps he never "abroad hath 
been." How many Donnes there may be today, I 
do not know. I do not, however, depreciate their 
attitude; I only plod on, praying their mercy as I 

go- 

For to all of us, our first trip abroad is a loom- 
ing event in our lives. It represents the realization 
of a long-cherished desire. Whatever more it rep- 
resents depends upon the individual. Sometimes it 
is disillusionment, again an unhoped-for delight, but 
it is always an experience. 

Upon an early July morning I staggered up the 
gang-plank and boarded the "Vaterland," heralded 
the world over as "the largest ship afloat." It was 
her third trip from New York to Hamburg, and even 
in the midst of a world which changes the new into 
the old over night, still caused explosive ejaculations 
of wonder to burst from thousands of passengers 



18 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 

and parted friends clamoring about the dock, com- 
panionways and decks of the steamer. I glanced 
along her nine hundred and fifty feet of side, thought 
of her fifty-eight thousand tons of weight, and very 
inadequately expressed my feelings by a "Gosh!" — 
and tumbled aboard. 

The air was filled with smells and sounds. 
Cooked cabbage, tarred ropes, the filthy North River 
water, all produced a nauseating combination, while 
the creaking of pulleys, the chugging of steam deck 
winches, the blare of bands, and the varying qualities 
of cries, orders, messages and farewells, all united in 
drowning individual thought and personal impres- 
sion in a whirlpool of confusion. 

After stowing my baggage in the one-fourth of 
a state-room allotted to me, I steered the little com- 
pany of friends who accompanied me thus far to a 
comparatively secluded corner of the deck, and 
spent a half hour in repeating absent-minded fare- 
wells and promises to write volumes of letters, wish- 
ing all the time that the boat would set out and end 
this mad tumult about me. 

White-coated stewards soon rushed frantically 
through the crowds, bawling "All ashore!" and in 
response, the decks thinned out and the pier became 
more compactly massed with human units, combined 
to form a swaying, crying area. Beside the gang- 
plank, fervent embraces were exchanged between 
parting friends. Tears and moaning added a touch 
of desolation to the scene. Many years before, in a 
railroad station with my father, I pointed at a pair 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 19 

about to be separated, who were ridiculous in the 
profundity of their grief. My father, who was ever 
quick to appreciate human nature, seized that occa- 
sion to speak of the sacredness of human emotion, 
and explained the inner meaning of so strange an 
external evidence. I remembered it just as I appre- 
ciated some of the ludicrous scenes before me — 
and refrain from their recitation here. 

I then perched myself upon a life-boat stanchion 
and gazed upon the pier. The plank was lowered, 
ropes cast off, and the tiny tugs, like ducklings pad- 
dling about a matronly dam, began their work. The 
deep bass siren of the ship bellowed for clearway, 
the towing lines became taut, and the little tugs be- 
gan what seemed their futile task. It was Gulliver 
and the Pygmies, and, true to the allusion, the Pyg- 
mies conquered. A quiver, and suddenly the jammed 
wharf seemed to be sliding along beside us ; we were 
off! 

In a single voice, the packed humanity shouted 
its farewell. Handkerchiefs waved in a sea of white- 
caps, and gradually calmed to a less frantic emotion 
— they covered eyes. Five thousand unuttered 
prayers ascended for the safety and well-being of 
the vessel and her creatures, five thousand smiling 
lips, tear-filled eyes, and aching hearts, and I dared 
call that assembly of love a mass! Each man and 
woman there had an individual, separate joy and 
sorrow, their thoughts went out to the monster ship 
and rested upon different complements of their love, 
but the unity of common emotion made them kin. 



20 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 

The huge length of the steamer was now in mid- 
stream, blocking the smaller traffic. All kinds of 
craft snorted and shrieked indignantly at the sloth- 
ful giantess in their path. She slowly headed down- 
stream, towards the open sea. I waved a goodbye to 
the blurred faces of friends on shore, and went 
below. My trip abroad had really begun. 

This is a fitting place to make a confession: I 
traveled second class. After my experience and ob- 
servation, I shall always do so. Not to mention the 
financial compensation for this sacrifice of pride, 
there is a host of arguments for this determination. 
In the second cabin one meets people, and usually of 
the most companionable sort, not worn-out social 
creatures, who insist that their deck chairs are their 
castles, about which are wide and deep moats of 
convention, and from whom the lonely and sociable 
individual is repelled by the consciousness of his 
crying sin, mediocrity. 

We glided under the shadows of lower New 
York, down to the upper bay. From my feeling of 
consciousness, I should say that the verdant Liberty 
and the city she illumes slid past us, for it seemed 
impossible that the huge island we were on was a 
ship, and steaming, with increasing speed, through 
the Narrows. I went into the salon to write to my 
friends brief notes, which should go back by the 
pilot. I told them all, with perfect truth, that thus 
far, on the first twenty minutes of my voyage, I felt 
no trace of seasickness. As that interesting topic 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 21 



holds the attention of every traveler, I could not 
escape it. 

I went below to establish myself in my new 
quarters, and found the stateroom overflowing with 
confusion. My three roommates were attempting 
what I wished to do. Let me introduce them. As I 
entered the narrow door, I bumped my head against 
something soft and clammy. Snakes, dead arms and 
other unaesthetic images seized upon my brain. 
With thumping heart, I dodged and cast a furtive 
glance upward. It was a long, sinuous sausage! Its 
keeper and owner was bowing and apologizing 
before me. 

I turned in wonderment from the suspended 
provender to its caretaker, and gasped again. I have 
seen many pictures of gnomes and similar folk with 
whom Rip Van Winkle foregathered, but always with 
a skeptical eye. I now know they exist, for one 
stood before me. He was little, he was fat, he had 
a long cataract of a beard, and a red ball of a nose. 
I unwittingly looked about for the cask of ale which 
usually accompanies his prototype. His words I 
could not understand, nor himself, nor a large bag 
of biscuits which lay with gaping mouth, upon his 
berth. 

"Don't mind him. Come on in," sounded a voice 
from a pile of shirts and articles de toilette heaped 
about half-opened suitcases. A young American 
emerged from the litter and gave me his name and 
hand. 

"I guess we bunk together," he said, and added, 



22 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 

jerking his head towards the dwarf, with a wink, 
"Old Melchizedek here doesn't understand English." 

With him, as with myself, the trip was an event 
in his life. It was his first crossing, and he was on 
the alert for the unusual. Lo, we had it right in the 
room with us! 

"I think he's a priest or rabbi of some sort," I 
ventured after noticing a short, black apron fast- 
ened to an all-enveloping vest which the little man 
wore. 

"He must be something like that," my companion 
returned. "I've heard that those chaps never eat 
with the others. They always eat their own food. 
He certainly has enough to last him the trip; one 
of his cases is full of sausages and other things." 

The fourth inhabitant of the room now appeared 
in the door. He gave the gnome a hasty, compre- 
hensive glance and then stared at his miscellaneous 
supply of provisions. He looked at us, evidently 
with more approval. 

"Doesn't he think he's going to be fed on the 
trip?" he demanded in a coarse, bass voice. I then 
recognized him, by his speech, as the party who was 
a moment before wrangling with the room-steward 
outside, insisting that he be provided with hot water 
for shaving, that he be called each morning at a 
certain time, and numerous other attentions. Then, 
recollecting his argument with the steward, who 
understood no English, and gave him no evident 
satisfaction, he continued : 

"Never have I seen such a line as this. I've been 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 23 

over twelve times, and never had to put up with such 
accommodations. You'd think we were traveling 
steerage the way we're treated." He went on in this 
strain. I remembered having read and heard of his 
type, the kind that travels second-class and has to 
explain it, coupled with frequent allusions to his 
experience and many crossings. He thought, no 
doubt, that the best way to display his knowledge of 
steamship companies and ocean travel would be to 
abuse his present situation. 

He was a heavy, brutish Jew, traveling perhaps 
for some American dry goods concern. Fortunately 
for the other young man and myself, he spent most 
of his days and nights in the smoking room playing 
poker, and with the exception of an occasional meet- 
ing during the morning's shave, when he complained 
vigorously about the food and service, we rarely saw 
him. 

The little rabbi, however, continued to be a 
source of delighted wonder to us. Every day dis- 
tinguished him in our eyes as a mysterious person- 
age, well worthy of study. Each morning he prayed 
at the port-hole, reading aloud from his ritual, and 
arrayed in a curious regalia, consisting, as far as I 
could see, of a strange sort of blanket, clasped about 
his breast, and a box-like cap, with an emblem of 
some kind over the brow. I trust that those who 
know more of this will forgive my ignorance. On 
the last day of the trip, when we were arranging our 
things for custom inspection, he seemed to have as 
much food unconsumed as in the beginning. Nearly 



24 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 

a whole valise was taken up with crackers and sau- 
sage. It must have been a long pilgrimage he had 
prepared for. 

After arranging my effects in my new abode, I 
inspected as much of the ship as was open to pass- 
engers of the second cabin. The smoking and grill 
room was the popular masculine resort. A bar which 
would have honored a jockey-club presided over the 
life of this room, and ere Sandy Hook was passed, 
it had begun its jovial duties. Conveniently oppo- 
site was the ladies' salon, where already, the dow- 
agers were ensconced, arraigning unsuspecting 
matrons who should have been members of this high 
court, but, owing to satisfactory bachelors who had 
been early discovered, rebelled against this passive 
participation in the affairs of romance. Wide, ce- 
rise-upholstered chairs and divans such as this room 
contained, were veritable abettors to gossip. A small, 
but extensively furnished gymnasium was located 
on this deck, where for the first few hours, every- 
one went to try the apparatus. This was the only 
time I saw it used on the voyage. 

By the time Ambrose Channel lightship was 
passed, and we had bowed an adieu to America, we 
changed our simile. No longer was this huge thing, 
containing five thousand creatures, to be considered 
an island. I was soon forced to recognize it as a 
ship, for she began to behave as one. Giant waves 
heaved her up and down, to and fro, and soon that 
bane of ocean travel, seasickness, spread like an 
epidemic. At lunch, the tables were crowded, at 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 25 

four o'clock coifee, a few vacant chairs told their 
tale, and at dinner, an almost deserted board pro- 
claimed disaster. A sturdy band, mostly men, gath- 
ered at the tables. Some were smiling, in the gloat- 
ing manner of the strong; others were grim and 
worried, filled with a sense of foreboding and dis- 
mal weakness. I was one of the latter. After I 
bravely conquered the soup, and laid siege to an 
impregnable steak, I thought a walk on deck would 
be more to the purpose. In the course of the evening 
my courage and strength of stomach returned, and 
I then joined the ranks of the gloaters, and remained 
true to my colors the remainder of the crossing. 

Speculation regarding human nature versus sea- 
sickness is always profitable. Why is it that com- 
passionate, loving folk surrender their virtues at this 
calamity? Friends laugh with barbaric cruelty at 
the misfortune of their loved ones. A toothache 
will draw from us our deepest commiseration, but 
seasickness — never! The man who would not even 
smile when his friend sits on a Sunday hat chortles 
fiendishly beside the wan figure in the steamer rug. 
This dread disease is to be condemned as the most 
deadly of all poisons to a lasting friendship. The 
one who is able to eat his five meals a day and who 
usually knows better than to talk about his appetite, 
promenades the deck and with an evil smile and 
stentorian voice discusses the tenderness of the 
chicken and the dressing of the pork. With the 
pitching of the vessel, the springs of mercy are 
closed in the human heart. 



26 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 

While lamenting the inhumanity of mal de mer, 
however, I find there is a chiding word yet to be 
said. There is the type which, in its perversity, 
seeks out this living death, corners it, and affords 
it a ready refuge. We usually consign all old ladies 
to this group, but we wrong them. All sorts and 
conditions make up this type. They have heard of sea- 
sickness, some have lived through it, and in a fever- 
ish anxiety which commences as the hawsers are 
being slipped from the dock, seek to make or renew 
its acquaintance. The idea of becoming ill obsesses 
them. They talk of it to the nearest unfortunate at 
table, they inquire for it in others, and worry over 
it themselves, and torment all who have ears, until 
at last, with a groan of realization, they attain their 
goal — and are seen no more. There is more reversed 
Christian Science practiced aboard an ocean liner 
than of the orthodox sort in a life of faith in this 
sect, ashore. 

After the second day, when the novelty of being 
afloat no longer fascinates, one makes friends. It 
was then that I began to appreciate the privileges of 
second cabin. Without any more cost or effort than 
was involved in a conventional chat and an exchange 
of cigars, I was initiated into an impromptu clique, 
to which I owe many of my pleasant recollections. 
"Prinz Oskar" was the organizer. The "prinz" was 
a German grocer, who, the day before, had been 
classed as a hare-brained simpleton. After an even- 
ing of his company, however, I amended the verdict 
to a fine scout. I bumped into him, on the night of 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 27 

our acquaintance, as he was singing a German love- 
song in a falsetto which would have been worth good 
money in a vaudeville cast, and pirouetting on a care- 
less foot before a heap of fellows crowded into a 
single deck chair. Instead of an acceptance to my 
apologies, I received an invitation to join the party. 
I stayed, and found that the "prinz" was not the 
victim of dementia, but merely expressing, in his 
way, the relaxation of a long year behind his coun- 
ters and the anticipation of a visit with his parents 
and "lieb' Vaterland." 

"Diamond Dick" asserted, by his popularity, the 
vice-regency of the band. He was an officer of the 
United States Secret Service, evidently operating on 
some smuggling case, for his stories as to his trip 
had the uniformity of his grandmother's "crazy 
quilt." To word it discreetly, he had the self-confi- 
dence and suavity of a ward-heeler. He was 
crammed with yarns of his experience — and imagina- 
tion. His forte was in telling gullible passengers 
that life-boats were to be lowered at midnight for 
drill, and keeping half the ship on deck to see the 
event which never happened. He made one confiding 
gentleman, who brought three quarts of "extra dry" 
aboard, drink himself ill and share the remainder of 
his treasure with all comers, by hinting that he 
would be arrested if he landed with any unconsumed. 

To mention at greater length the various pranks 
that "Diamond Dick" performed would be to prove 
merely the obvious, that he was a practical joker of 
Class A. His ready and skillful tongue, accompanied 



28 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 

by a humorous twinkle in his small eyes, with ever 
a hearty laugh at his own stories, won for him a 
position of high esteem in the party. But there is a 
third, though lesser, constellation in this heaven of 
second-cabin popularity, Jobert, a French wine agent. 
Caught in the whirlpool of good fellowship, he de- 
termined to have a "big time" at all costs. The most 
likeable qualities that he possessed, however, were 
his titanic efforts to speak English and, stored under 
his berth, three cases of champagne, already opened 
and fast dwindling. He was persistent in his efforts 
to be companionable. Like a noonday shadow, he 
was always at our feet. 

At such a time as this, one does not choose his 
comrades; he makes the best of those before him. 
Hence, haggard business men, blase moving picture 
actors, relaxed newspaper writers, and even a cas- 
socked priest gathered before "Prinz Oskar's" 
wicker throne to exchange ideas, to battle in theo- 
logical arguments, to barter stories, and to swap 
tobacco. 

And now a word about a very popular pastime- 
Romance. To speak from general impressions re- 
ceived, one-half of the passengers smile upon it, the 
others frown. These two groups are divided by the 
figure forty. The former are younger than forty 
years, the latter older. Those who are forty, or peril- 
ously near it — well, their attitude depends upon tem- 
perament and digestion. 

Now, there are varying degrees and qualities of 
ocean-liner love-making, and these also depend upon 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 29 

age. As a rule, the quality sought, and found, by 
votaries under the twenty-five year mark is not 
deemed worthy of the slightest comment from the 
arm-chair corner of the ladies' salon. The next ten 
years cover the general target of the light artillery. 
That is to say, the period between twenty-five and 
thirty-five provides the ordinary, regulation gossip 
material. But the last five years — here the heavy 
guns are pointed! The unsuspecting individual be- 
tween thirty-five and forty is the big game of these 
grey-haired Dianas. The one who, after a thirty- 
fifth birthday, has five short, sweet years of romance 
yet to live is watched struggling up the gang-plank, 
observed while eating a first luncheon, spied upon 
during an afternoon promenade, trailed to the loung- 
ing room, searched out in all nooks and corners, and 
is duly arraigned, in absentia, before the high tri- 
bunal at its evening session. If the unfortunate is 
a poor male, he is either a disgraceful married man, 
leaving behind him a trusting wife and neglected 
children while he is enjoying an indolent holiday, 
or perhaps a bachelor — and of that horrid type we 
need say nothing. Should this person be a woman, 
then she must be a school-teacher who, in her earlier 
days could not attract a man into her net, or, infin- 
itely worse, she may be a widow! If ever I reach 
five and thirty, in self-protection, I shall never travel 
without my mother, or wait until I can safely join 
the ranks of the frozen-hearted frowners! 

When the trip is half over, when one has met 
all the people he cares to know, and when there is 



30 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 

no other apparent reason for holding a social event, 
the "amateur concert" is given. I think the "ama- 
teur" part of the title should not be so plainly stated 
on the program, for the event itself always shrieks 
it. When the word "amateur" is used slightingly, it 
contains a terrible meaning. I now employ it in that 
sense. In the case of our concert the favorite Sex- 
tette from Lucia was played not less than three 
times, each rendition worse than the preceding, by 
three willing artists who mumbled, as they left the 
piano amid the faint, damning applause, something 
to the effect that they "were only too glad to give the 
others some amusement." 

Some friends of the fat man who offered to do 
card tricks had captured the necessary properties, 
and were using them in a pinochle game in the grill. 
He left to fetch them — and two hours later, when 
the weary concert sighed its last, we found him with 
his confreres, playing a good hand, and surrounded 
by a huge stack of chips. The only humorist in the 
troupe was an unintentional one. He was an enter- 
prising young chap who thought to have been re- 
warded by prodigious popularity for organizing the 
entertainment. He announced the numbers, and in 
his nervousness skipped about the program so that, 
when he informed his audience that Miss Lillian 
Smythe (with a y) would render some popular airs, 
a heavy, ponderous German arose and sang a Wag- 
nerian score in a hoarse bass. 

These words of condemnation for the efforts of 
deluded people who wished to please us may indeed 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 31 

betray my ungrateful heart. I can, however, be ap- 
preciative of unsuccessful efforts, but never grateful 
for them. 

The evening before land was sighted was the 
occasion for many "farewell parties". To judge 
from the commotion caused by it, I believe I was in 
the most noisy, if not the most sentimental of all. 
The "prinz" gathered his court about him in the 
grill, where song and story beguiled the hasting even- 
ing. At the proper time, that is, when we had 
given them an opportunity to "get settled," our 
court, headed by its sovereign, began its progress to 
the haunts of the smaller and more romantic groups. 
Were I speaking instead of writing, I should say 
plainly that we were bent upon disconcerting lovers. 
As I am writing, however, I must peregrinate and 
avoid bluntness at all costs. With royal wisdom, 
"Prinz Oskar" foresaw that this evening would hide 
under its soft shadows many a parting scene, and 
hence his program. Upon telling his subjects that 
he intended to raid all recesses behind life boats and 
hatches, he not only kept many from being there 
themselves, but made them join in the sortie against 
those we all secretly envied. 

Thus, at midnight, when we were invited to leave 
the smoking room by a lusty, impatient steward who 
switched off the lights to enforce his request, we tip- 
toed to the boat deck. Like a band of Sioux, "hell- 
bent" for scalps, we slid out of the companionway 
into the softening darkness beyond the range of deck 
lights. Our noble chieftain, with the remembrance. 



32 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 

no doubt, of the habits of his youth, led us unerring- 
ly to the quarry. He pointed out to us a dark mass 
vaguely outlined in deeper blackness against the 
surrounding night. He raised his hand. There was 
a silence of expectation, a silence accompanied by 
the breaking of the waves against the steel waterline 
far below, and by the wind playing its aeolian chants 
upon the steel guide ropes and halyards. His hand 
fell, and as it hit his side, a dozen lusty voices sang 
out the "Heigh-li, heigh-lo" so dear to German ears. 
A frightened steamer chair collapsed, upsetting its 
abashed occupants. We could feel the blushes on 
their cheeks and the anger in their hearts as they 
uttered mechanical laughter. 

With the disregard of a pursuing Nemesis, the 
band pushed on to new exploits. Only twice did our 
leader err, and we with him. Once we serenaded two 
burly sailors who grunted some unintelligible Ger- 
man at us. The other time we sang our best and 
most startlingly, but the dark blur did not move. We 
approached, puzzled. It was a fire-bucket rack! 

The next morning as I picked my way over quiv- 
ering hose in the pursuit of sufficient appetite with 
which to battle my breakfast, while the deck hands 
were "washing down," I saw Europe for the first 
time. Like a dream-land, the grey, distant hills of 
Brittany emerged from the slight mist, fast vanish- 
ing from the face of the rising sun. It sent a thrill 
of realization through me. Yonder lay Europe; the 
land that had always seemed veiled with unattainable 
dreams was rising from the horizon. 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 33 

At noon we lay to before Cherbourg, nestling 
under verdant hillsides. After transferring some 
passengers to a spacious lighter, we turned north- 
ward. Soon the cliffs of England appeared and, 
before the novelty of staring at this new land had 
left me, we passed under the Isle of Wight and stood 
before Portsmouth spread out on the opposite shore. 
Here a fleet of English dreadnoughts lay at anchor. 
Little did I think then as I snapped my camera at 
them, that before two months were gone they would 
meet in deadly combat with the submarines which I 
saw on the following day, moored at their berth in 
Cuxhaven. Our British passengers went over the 
rail into a side-wheeler which steamed down from 
Southampton to meet us, and we were soon headed 
through the Channel for Germany. 

After one has read countless tales of the dis- 
tressful passage of the English Channel, and has been 
stirred to a vague sense of foreboding by them, he is 
agreeably disappointed when he sees it calm and still 
as an artificial lake. It is like emerging from a 
country graveyard on a dark night, after one has 
searched and startled in vain for ghosts who would 
not walk. 

That evening, customs inspection of trunks and 
heavy baggage was held aboard the steamer, "for the 
convenience of the passengers," as the voluminous 
company literature informed us. I traveled with a 
handbag, and was not personally involved. For this 
reason, I believe I was one of the very few sweet- 
tempered people on board that night. I descended 



34 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 



into the inferno of confusion. Haughty, green- 
uniformed officials, who bore themselves with the 
dignity of the Kaiser they represented, stood erect 
and firm amid surging billows of exasperated beings. 
Bedlam reigned. Shrieks and oaths, depending upon 
sex and degree of indignation, drowned the orders of 
the officers. The decks were strewn with trunks, 
garments, and mad people. Groups, forty strong, 
stormed the citadel of official composure. Each one 
for himself, and the devil take the last, or the one 
who excited suspicion. If a patient soul, sitting in 
desolation on the lid of his unlocked trunk, looked as 
though he had a box of his favorite cigars at the 
bottom of it, nothing would do but that he must dis- 
close his private collection of shirts, pajamas and 
camphored traveling togs to the gaze of this 
scowling multitude. If this represents convenience, 
thought I, the landing in New York will be well 
worth the whole voyage to see. 

The next morning's contribution to my dis- 
coveries was a good specimen of the English fog. 
The North Sea must have been under us, but we 
could not see it. As we curved southward into 
Cuxhaven, however, the British mist neutralized into 
a Teutonic clearness, and Germany lay before me. 
Cuxhaven stretched forth her wharf to greet us. The 
tiny town had little else to offer, for beside the open 
dock stood the railroad terminal. Beyond lay a 
flotilla of warcraft, seeming useless and futile in 
its idleness. Their fires were soon to be kindled, 
however. All about lay damp, rich meadow land; 



AT LARGE IN G ERMANY 35 

and this was Cuxhaven, the porter to the ancient 
town of Hamburg. Seizing my hand-bag, and brib- 
ing the stewards lined up in formidable array, all 

afflicted with the itching hand of Cassius,— I romped 
down the inclined gangway, and stood upon German 
soil. 



Part II.— 'Round About Germany 



'ROUND ABOUT GERMANY 

MORE courage than I possess is required to 
inflict upon a critical world an account of 
the beauties of Europe. Few were the un- 
trodden, and undescribed byways which I visited; 
few also, then, must be my references to the scenes 
already painted by abler pens. If, therefore, the 
subject matter is old, there remains but the alter- 
native, — my impressions received from it. 

My first experience, then, was the station at 
Cuxhaven, where we had to wait an hour for the 
steamship company's special train to take us to 
Hamburg, Instead of entering a modest waiting- 
room of the impeachable respectability of American 
railroads, I found myself whirled into a spacious 
cafe, flourishing in its business like a Broadway 
resort on New Year's Eve. The tables were crowded 
with thirsty Germans and experience-seeking Ameri- 
cans. I unconsciously looked about for the blushing 
faces of our American "bachelor ladies," but found 
them only after peering through the unemptied 
glasses which they had raised to their lips. Verily, 
they were "doing as the Romans do." Thus are con- 
ventions of a life-time metamorphosed into un-con- 
ventions when the human being is transferred into a 
different environment. Total abstinence ceases to 



40 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 

be a virtue when in a country where temperance is 
not a profession. 

After thus attempting to moralize in the midst 
of this popular iniquity, I bought a railway time- 
table, at a good price too, and endeavored to solve 
some of the mysteries of its algebraic formulae. The 
simplified sheets which seemed so complicated in an 
American waiting-room, would be marvels of ingen- 
ious arrangement compared to the sturdy tome which 
bears the same name, "time table," in Germany. A 
volume of a worthy encyclopedia would be as con- 
venient, and as small. All manner of information 
poured from its pages, excepting, perhaps, the leav- 
ing time of the train you were hastening to board. 

Like a babe in a new world, I was smothered 
under a deluge of new impressions. The train coaches 
next crave a word. In the four classes of travel on 
the imperial system there is little difference, save the 
upholstery and the number, also quality, of one's 
traveling companions. The first-class compartment 
holds four people, and in it one sits upon red velvet. 
In the second, six people rest upon orange plush, and 
in the third class eight travelers squat on "soft" pine 
seats, which harden as the journey lengthens. The 
fourth class holds as many as the occasion requires 
and the capacity of the car permits ; perhaps, also, the 
wooden seats are a little straighter and harder. 

Like the imaginative, aforesaid babe, I shrieked 
with delight when, en route to Hamburg I passed a 
thatched cottage so common in "old country" etch- 
ings, and saw, perched in a huge nest on the chimney 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 41 

top, a meditative stork, as though fresh from a nurs- 
ery book. We rushed along, beside the Elbe and 
between highly cultivated fields. Here and there 
were stacked bricks of "torf" used as coal by the 
peasants, and every few minutes we plunged through 
government fir forests, as neatly arranged as prize 
peach orchards. 

It was nearly ten o'clock, and still the day lin- 
gered. I was forced to alter my time reckoning, for 
in these parts the day extends far into the sleeping 
hours. Amid a feast of strange sights on which my 
hungry tourist-eyes delighted, we tore along into 
Hamburg. Ship-landing day is harvest time for the 
hotel keepers there. We came in on the third train 
load, and we were forced to seek third-rate accommo- 
dations for the night. A pension located at the top 
of one of the city's seven-storied sky-scrapers was 
all I could find. I had read of pensions in popular 
European novels, but all romance and novelty were 
drained from this acquaintance when I realized they 
were but ordinary boarding-houses. 

I sought a late dinner, and found it after roaming 
along the plaza before the vast railway station, past 
cafes where populous tables extended to the edge of 
the side-walk. I walked by these places, thinking I 
could find one of our respectable institutions desig- 
nated as restaurants, but none appeared. I suddenly 
realized that I was not tramping an American street, 
and ate in what my friends back home would have 
termed a middle-class saloon. Gradually, under the 
influence of the strangeness about me which was 



42 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 

steadily growing, I began to feel the distance which 
separated me from New York. With this sensation 
of strangeness and separation came the first pangs 
of homesickness, and before I nibbled at my dessert 
I was in the depths of "Heimweh." Think of feeling 
like a lost schoolboy on the first night in Germany, 
the land of my longing dreams ! I scolded and fumed 
to no avail, — I was homesick. 

I was caught in the grip of the eternal dissatis- 
faction. I had got what I wanted, and was still dis- 
content. Pride, which is ever a powerful ally in mo- 
ments of weakness, rescued me. If I had confessed 
my malady, it would always be scored against me, 
and so, with determination in my heart and a lump in 
my throat, I decided to "see all Germany, or bust." 

My first adventure was with my bed at the pen- 
sion. I had, upon visits to my grandmother, slept 
with one feather mattress as a bedfellow, but here 
were two. It demanded more than American endur- 
ance to sandwich oneself between these two billowy 
cream-puffs, especially in torrid July. In defiance of 
German institutions, therefore, I wrapped myself in 
a table cover, and, with the feathery monster flung 
disdainfully upon the floor, dosed into an American 
dreamland. 

Hamburg was up and going long before me. 
After the typical German breakfast of rolls, jam and 
coffee, and a quick, tourist-like glance at the city, 
whose busy markets and deafening port I shall not, 
as promised, describe, I collapsed into my railway 
scat on the train for Bremen. 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 43 

Either Bremen is a more beautiful city than Ham- 
burg, or I became more Germanized en route, for I 
forgot my homesickness as soon as I saw the vast, 
flower-tinted park before the Bremen Bahnhof. It 
seems that there is a park at the end of each of the 
narrow, turning streets in this ancient city. The 
clean white buildings are half hidden behind huge 
flower boxes, bright with lusty nasturtiums, perched 
at every window ledge. Armed with a basket of 
cherries hanging on one sleeve, urged upon me by a 
withered grandam, and with my cocked camera 
held ready in my hand, I wandered in search of game. 
I was perhaps as unconscious of the wondering looks 
bestowed upon me by the busy Bremeners as they 
were of my secret amusement at their persons and 
city. 

After taking a dozen snap-shots and writing a 
page of notes, which, as usual, was lost ere the 
journey ended, I dismissed Bremen with a wave of 
the hand and a stirrup-cup at the station, and began 
a long trip to Cologne. I mentally pricked up my 
ears at the thought of Cologne, for I confess, with 
reluctance, that I had heard of this town more than 
of Bremen in my history-studying days, and fur- 
ther, when one tires of the sights of the city, the 
Rhine beckons. 

There is a favorite pastime with German travel- 
ers, which seems to claim more whole-hearted atten- 
tion than the American pinochle game in the smoker 
on our trains. I do not know what it is called in 
German — perhaps it has no "regular" name — but I 



44 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 

dubbed it "beer-snatching." Do not condemn this 
general sport as vulgar, for over-drinking is not one 
of its characteristics. The law of chance attends 
to that. 

As the long train steams into the station, win- 
dows go down and heads pop out from all coaches, 
and a series of frantic yells and cries are emitted 
from the intent Germans, The object of this bed- 
lam is a white-aproned youth who pushes a cart out- 
fitted with a keg of beer and pump, along the plat- 
form to the coach from which the most persistent 
calling comes, all the while barking "Restauration !" 
When the gods are propitious, two boys and carts 
play the game. As foaming half-liter goblets of 
fragrant Muenchener are passed up to the fortunati 
hanging from the windows, the neglected contestants 
in this merry game shriek their threats, entreaties 
and imprecations until the train passes on. At the 
next depot, the turmoil begins anew; the disap- 
pointed take on new heart, the satiated play for the 
love of the sport, and the pale, aproned youth reaps 
his harvest of half-marks. The Prohibition Party 
must have a meagre following here. 

While rushing through Duesseldorf, we passed 
vast fields in which the giant skeletons of Zeppelin 
sheds were being erected, and above them two eagle- 
like monoplanes soared in their daily practice. We 
then marvelled at the infant science of aeronautics, 
little thinking that in a few months this triumph of 
man over nature should also triumph over man. In 
all the cities of Germany the uniforms of the mili- 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 45 

tary were ever in sight, but in these tranquil days 
one accepted the sight of furloughed soldiers as 
incidental to ordinary life in a progressive European 
state. Those serene days were the calm before the 
mad tempest. 

As the train swung under the mammoth glazed 
arch of the Cologne station, I caught a glimpse of 
the lofty towers of the famed cathedral, piercing 
the clouds with their graceful pointed tops. As I 
emerged from the station, staggering under packed 
suit cases, the old Dom startled and oppressed me 
by its proximity. Grace requires distance for its ap- 
preciation. The edifice seemed an overwhelming 
mountain of masonry, sombre and awful. But the 
Koelners, bold with familiarity with this Goliath, 
rushed to and fro under its very feet. 

By bitter experience, I have found that the 
rarest thing in Cologne is a bath. That statement de- 
mands further qualification; I meant that a bath for 
myself was hard to attain, together with suitable 
hotel conveniences. After searching, with growing 
impatience, for my night's domicile, I capitulated 
to German institutions, and registered at one of the 
"finds" of my entire trip. It was the "Hotel Sals- 
ruempchen." Its lobby was the tap-room, wherein 
giant casks and tuns were ensconced like prelates 
proud. The stone flooring was deliciously damp 
with the overplus of many drawings. The creatures 
which inhabited it were as quaint as the painted 
figures of bearded gnomes upon the walls, and the 



46 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 

ancient building itself would have made a seven- 
teenth century guildhall look infantile. 

An evening walk through the slender, winding 
streets of the old city, with its many-gabled houses 
meeting in a "united we stand" spirit over the nar- 
row side walks, made me feel as though I were living 
in a book of history. With truly American curi- 
osity I plunged my head into deep-shadowed door- 
ways, hoping to discover some thrilling adventure 
which must always happen to those who travel 
abroad. This expectation of adventure was instilled 
in me by the episodes of all summer novels. It seems 
that the unusual must needs happen far from home; 
one never looks for thrills before his own doorstep 
— it should be found upon those of others. 

Needless to say, I found none, for adventure is 
foreign to well-ordered German life. After turning 
a sharp bend in the alley I was pursuing, I caught 
my first glimpse of the Rhine, What dreams of 
romance the word Rhine had called up before my 
imagination ere this glimpse! The Rhine now 
thrilled me about as much as the renowned Hudson 
river does those who see it from the Hoboken shore ; 
that is to say, not in the least. The beauty of the 
Hudson cannot be perceived from the Statue of Lib- 
erty; neither could that of the Rhine be recognized 
from my viewpoint. 

The traffic-soiled water rushed with mountain- 
torrent speed through all manner of barges and 
river craft. The impression of placidity which paint- 
ings give to this stream was entirely upset, for with 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 47 

a low roar it tumbled on, dark and sinister in the 
gathering gloom. Powerful tugs, pulling at heavily- 
laden barges, strove to make headway against the cur- 
rent. The element of commercialism plying over 
the waters of the most beautiful river in the world 
was too strong to be ignored. The Rhine, enshrined 
by legend and patriotic sentiment, appeared to my 
first gaze as an important shipping canal. Thus did 
reality dissolve the ideal. 

Perhaps one of the most appealing characteris- 
tics, to the American mind, in anything made by 
God or man, is size. It is the bulk, measurement and 
capacity of a thing that attracts us. Hence, instead 
of going into ecstatic ravings, in regulation guide- 
book phrases, over the sublimity of the Cologne 
Cathedral, I confess that the only verbal expression 
of wonderment which I, and other Americans whom 
I could overhear, gave forth were ejaculations as to 
the height of the towers. 

After one stares out of countenance the towers 
and pinnacles of the Cathedral, and has bought vari- 
ous post-cards of varying accuracy and artistic worth 
from the variety of ancient dames encamped in the 
porches and about the plazas around the building, 
one enters for further impressions and greater satis- 
faction of curiosity. In the shadow-blackened aisles 
I wandered, gazing at the monumental splendor be- 
fore me. I realized, aided by a waft of incense-tinted 
air, that I was in the midst of an inspired work. 

Soon the practical asserted itself. I saw the dirt 
and dust in the corners of the benches, the dampened, 



48 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 

musty bases of the columns, the coarse, blatant red 
gowns of the vergers who roamed about, seeking 
whom they might devour. I realized that the writers 
of the deluge of impassioned accounts of the age, 
splendor, magnificence and inspiration of the Euro- 
pean Cathedrals did so from an idealistic station. 
They chose not to see the real for the time. They did 
not remember the tinsled, gaudy altars nor the arti- 
ficialty of the stage-like "settings." This is, no doubt, 
a species of lese-majeste to dare to see the real in- 
stead of the ideal in such a high temple of art and 
faith, as the Cologne Cathedral. Such is, neverthe- 
less, the young ^pirit of criticism from the New 
World today. The much-heralded must ever fall a 
little flat upon its realization. The error or the dis- 
illusionment, however, springs often from the subject 
rather than the object. 

As the illusionary invites disillusionment, so the 
unannounced and unheralded often surprises with 
delight. It was so with the beauties of Bonn, which 
I shall gratefully remember as the most attractive 
city of Germany. I boarded a train at Cologne for 
Bonn, considering it as but a steamer landing, where 
I should begin a Rhine trip. I had no high hopes of 
finding anything there except a huge dinner, but, 
to offset my slight taste of disappointment at 
Cologne, I found a feast of "local color," historic 
interest and natural beauty. 

The white buildings of this old town shone and 
sparkled in the sun which hurriedly dried the effects 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 



of a morning shower. The window boxes burst with 
their colorsome flowers, the grass in the tiny square 
scintillated after its freshening bath, and a Sunday- 
morning atmosphere of peace and quiet hovered over 
the waving tops of the avenue trees. The old univer- 
sity stretched out at the head of the smooth, vast 
campus, under whose giant elms walked phlegmatic 
students, proud in their possession of cap, sash and 
cane. From the Arndt Denkmal one receives his first 
spell of the Rhine charm. Overlooking the river, 
which is clear and calm at this point, the statue of 
the old patriot contemplates the distant hills about 
the Drachenfels, crowned by its crumbling ruins, and 
watches the excursionists, laughing and singing hap- 
pily upon the shaded boulevard which borders the 
stream. 

Stimulated by the unexpected charm of Bonn, I 
boarded a slow steamer about to enter the fairy- 
land of Europe. This time I sacrificed the Amer- 
ican method of traveling on express boats for the 
more leisurely craft which loves to linger among 
the windings of the great stream. 

We soon steamed into the shadows of the Rhine 
mountains. Romance and beauty came forth, hand 
in hand, to greet their willing subjects. The terraced 
vinelands tumbled from the rocky heights down to 
the water's edge to welcome us. The cool, misty 
air was surcharged with legends of robber barons 
and alluring Rhine- maidens. Occasionally the dream 
was broken by the passing of a chain of coal barges 
and obscured with the sooty smoke from the funnels 



50 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 



of the panting tug, or by the hum of commercialism 
rising from the whitened villages nestling under the 
bosom of the dark hills. It was, as in the Cologne 
Cathedral, the insistence of the real, the practical 
and the present. But here the power of illusion was 
stronger, for nature's temple, even though invaded by 
the real, still contains more of its charm than the 
works of man. 

After a day of delight in plodding up the rush- 
ing path of the waters, I saw the haze-shrouded city 
of Coblenz creep from behind an obscuring hillside, 
and extend her little pier in welcome. Accepting 
her hospitality, I landed and fell into her trap of 
water-front hotels, set and baited for American 
travelers. It is strange, the way the Stars and Stripes, 
floating lonesomely upon its staff over the German 
hotel sign, will attract its loyal creatures into the 
web of the spider-portier within the door-way. 

After a moonlight walk along the water front, 
under the blue-black hills over the river and the sin- 
ister, half-outlined fortress, Ehrenbreitstein, which 
peered over the tip of an opposite mountain, I felt 
that Germany was not such a bad place after all. 
The evening air carried to the ear the tinkling of 
glasses and feminine laughter from the broad veran- 
das of the hotels, and the care-free songs of boating 
parties upon the placid Moselle, until imagination 
fed the heart with delicacies which must be tasted 
and felt, not described. The moonbeams, softer and 
more skilled than any artist's brush, repainted the 
glorious Rhineland and the time-worn, ancient city, 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 51 

leaving out the blemishes and wrinkled features dis- 
covered by the harsher sunlight. 

Like a vague, absorbed perfume, the delights of 
the evening still lingered with me the next morning 
as I loitered through my breakfast among the palms 
of the hotel porch. The Rhine tore down on its way 
to the sea, as though to make up for its peaceful 
rest and quiet under the moonlight and shadow of 
the previous evening. The bells of the steamers rang 
impatiently for their passengers. The porters ran 
about the distant landing, seeking their prey. The 
townsfolk rushed busily about their business and the 
peasants, pushing in from their country fields pro- 
duce-laden carts, urged their tired limbs to obtain 
a point of vantage in the market place. I looked 
up to the hills, above the rush and turmoil, and sighed 
contentedly. I was a willing thrall to the Rhine 
magic. 

In Coblenz, one always visits the Wilhelm der 
Grosse monument which stands in massive ponder- 
ance at the point of juncture of the Moselle and the 
Rhine. From the top of this memorial one sees the 
confused buildings of the city pushing aside the 
smaller, crowding houses in their efforts to attain 
unobstructed air and sunlight. The peaceful, clear 
Moselle, winding down from the blue-grey hills 
of France, to the west, invites the traveler to enter 
her charmed domain and rest under her vinelands, 
free from the busy traffic of the seething Rhine. 
In answer to the call of the river, I walked along 
the bank to see a famed thirteenth century bridge 



52 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 



which extended its lazy length above the stream. 
The huge stone affair, however, had been so reno- 
vated and repaired by modern hands and materials, 
that scarcely more than its tradition reached back 
to that dark period. As illusion is what the tourist 
seeks, I did not evince any doubts as to the age of 
the venerable pile. Stonework seven centuries old 
is not a thing to argue lightly with ! 

Summoning my courage, I entered the labyrinth 
of alleys and twisting lanes, resolving to see the 
heart of Coblenz or get hopelessly lost among its 
arteries in the attempt. "Quaint" and "ancient" be- 
come tiresome epithets when describing an old 
German city. Nevertheless, quaint and ancient were 
the sights to be encountered. The narrow streets ex- 
cluded carts and heavy vehicles, but the bales and 
bags which they should have conveyed were borne 
upon the sturdy backs of the native women. The over- 
hanging houses shaded the lanes and gave them the 
gloom and dank smell of tunnels. Here and there, 
the avenues broadened into tiny squares, where the 
noonday sun could penetrate. In my searching, I 
came upon the public market. The push-carts were 
piled high with wares, which the shrill voices of the 
old women who guarded them extolled and invited 
to purchase. The place was alive with the affairs 
of domestic arrangement. Not a man was to be seen 
in all this confusion— no more than a sagacious Amer- 
ican husband would dare intrude upon a Monday- 
morning bargain sale. 

Frequently the houses extend completely over 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 53 

the street, and in one case, as though to alleviate the 
effect of this theft of sunlight and air from those 
who must walk on the street below, the side of the 
house was decorated with weird figures of what I 
believe were intended for old women. Above these 
Graces was a German couplet, "They were roses once, 
now thorns; but the circle still goes 'round." I won- 
dered on whom was the joke, and decided upon some 
undesirable mothers-in-law, for this bit of philoso- 
phy was as unexpected as it was charming. 

An aged, tottering church demanded, by its air 
of extreme antiquity, that I enter it. Instead of 
studying its grotesque architecture, however, I was 
busied in observing the human nature found there. 
Some American ladies, in full summer toilette, were 
standing in the main aisle. Behind them, bowing 
over the musty benches, were several market women 
who sought rest, coolness and perhaps meditation in 
the gloom of the nave. All forgot their desires, 
however, in the effort to appreciate the dresses of 
the other women. One old soul, wrinkled and bent 
beyond feminine recognition, not wishing to lose 
the continuity of a half-finished rosary, muttered 
over her worn beads and bobbed her head from side 
to side, absorbing the slightest details of flounce and 
trimming, crossing herself occasionally with a toil- 
smudged hand which paused as some new item de- 
manded her attention. Women are the same, the 
world over. 

A short walk on the pontoon bridge took me 
across the Rhine to the foot of the Gibraltar, Ehren- 



54 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 

breitstein, where I boarded a "cute" trolley car, more 
like a mountain burro, which raced up the steep hills 
and around perilous curves, and landed me breathless 
in a tiny, back-land hamlet, Arenburg. All who en- 
ter Coblenz are thus steered to this little burg to 
admire a church and its elaborate gardens there. Af- 
ter tramping about the place the remainder of the 
morning, I confess the greatest amount of rapture 
and inspiration I could work up was a deep longing 
for a mammoth dinner. To satisfy this vulgar need, 
I trudged further up the mountain road, until I was 
at last rewarded by the sight of a truly German 
wayside inn, not one tampered with to attract fash- 
ionable "foreigners." To devote even a sentence to 
that dinner would be bad manners, but I confess that 
the chief event of the day was the noontime repast. 
The shady courtyard above the sunny, winding road 
which fell down the hill to the Rhine, sparkling and 
dancing miles away, was a setting fit for a poet and 
worthy of a painter. 

The remainder of the day took me more deeply 
into the fairyland of the Rhine. From Coblenz on- 
ward, the hills heightened, the ruins became more 
ruinous, the romantic atmosphere of old legend and 
history increased. Past the desolate region of the 
Lorelei pushed the little steamer, under the frowning, 
imposing piles of masonry once the strongholds of 
doughty barons and now the delight of tourist's eyes 
and the extractor of his money through the efficient 
medium of the caretaker and family. 

In the darkling shades of twilight, wc touched 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 55 

at the bobbing pontoon pier of Assmannshausen, and 
here I jumped off. This little village is scarcely 
more than a row of modest hotels, ending in the 
usual Bad-Haus along the river side. The place was 
buried under the gloom of the mountains about. 
Centuries had flown over its lowly site, and left it 
untouched. I expected to see a band of sixteenth- 
century Spaniards burst forth from some narrow 
alley and engage with the men of Burg Rheinstein 
which reared its stony heads above the blue silhou- 
ette of the hills over the river. I arrived unmolested, 
however, at the gate of a vine-grown hostelry, and 
soon forgot history in dickering with the host for a 
night's lodging. 

That evening I first appreciated the abundant 
allusions to "moonlight on the Rhine." I sat in the 
shade of the heavy vines about the veranda, drinking 
in the stifled perfume from the closed buds, and 
gazing upon the dream-scene before me. The orange- 
colored moon shed a mystic twilight over the valley. 
There was no shade, no glare. Surely this was not 
night, but a quality of effulgence such as spread 
abroad before the creation of the heavenly bodies. 
It was neither day nor night. It was a sort of dimmed 
radiance, a halo of enchantment hovering about a 
magic spot. The rushing of the waters was lowered 
to a deep bass crooning, the sleeping breeze stirred 
and sighed in the leafy branches, and the call of a 
distant night bird vibrated between the hilly walls 
along the river. It was the still, sweet harmony of 
beautiful nature. 



56 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 

In the bright sun of early morning I attacked 
the Castle Rheinstein on the opposite shore, aided by 
a gasoline launch and a loaded camera. This huge 
pile, clinging to the rocky hillside like a perching 
eagle, is fully restored, thanks to its owner, Prince 
Henry of Prussia, and is a charming museum for the 
relics of its former glory. Beds of kings, gowns of 
queens, lances, swords and armors of their warriors 
fill the cell-like rooms. The mailed glove of old 
Goetz von Berlichingen, robbed of its bloody terror, 
lies idle upon a bench beside the steel garb of Em- 
peror "Max." The treasures of Teuton heroes and 
villains mingle in silent company. The dungeon 
looked its blackest for me, and the turrets pushed 
rigidly upward far above my head. What a delight 
the courts, towers and chambers of these old castles 
must have been to the children of their lords when 
they played hide-and-seek ! 

A lunch on the crest of the mountain, far above 
the winding, rushing river with its tiny barges and 
steamers plying up and down, was like dining with 
the gods. With the hills reaching like giant waves, 
for the proudest place along the river, with the opu- 
lent, stainless clouds just overhead, one forgets 
about train time and hotel bills. 

These two necessary evils, however, recalled me 
to the village over the stream, and soon I was 
jerked along the track to Wiesbaden, past the Ruedes- 
heim hill crowned with the dazzling Niederwald 
Denkmal, and once more into the realm of commerce. 
A few moments were all I could dedicate to Wics- 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 57 

baden, that Mecca of the ancient cult of Bathers, 
just long enough to walk about its flowery park, 
stare at its fashion-seeking creatures taking their 
morning sun by coach and four, and admire its pre- 
tentious dwellings. A glance at its modernity, its 
artificiality, a snort of the engine, and I was off to 
ancient Mainz. 

I shall now institute one of my greatest privi- 
leges — that of dismissing with meagre sentences 
cities and their renowned treasures, so dear to Ger- 
man pride and foreign appreciation. The danger of 
committing a mortal sin, writing a guide-book, gags 
my mouth and paralyzes my pen. The unconscious 
is generally the truest, and it should be said that 
the truest is probably the most delightful. Nature 
and human nature, both naively true and real, are 
infinitely more interesting than city buildings, boule- 
vards and the conventionalized folk who proudly 
promenade them. The larger the city, the more arti- 
ficial its people. They have acquired urbanity at the 
sacrifice of their human nature, and it requires a 
tremendous shock for a partial restoration of this, 
their most genuine quality. Is this the price of mod- 
ern civilization? 

At Mainz, I walked along the tree-lined boule- 
vard, admired and reverenced the old Cathedral of 
the powerful cassocked Electors, paid my tribute of 
ejaculations to the new theatre which is the pride 
of all the burghers, jumped off the narrow sidewalk 
before the dignified march of the army officers who 



58 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 

promenaded about ; but it was only when I blundered 
through a chat with an old apple-woman in the 
park near the station that I enjoyed my visit. I 
attempted to give the bent and withered ancient a 
sketchy idea of America, and doubt not that after 
my recital she thought it more a land of mystery than 
ever before. In return, she confided to me that 
American appetite boomed her business. They were 
the only folk, she told me, who were not too proud 
to eat her apples upon the streets, and on the 
strength of that national compliment, I bought a 
dozen. 

I jumped next to Heidelberg, and found this 
stronghold of romance in the throes of what we 
should call "Old Home Week." All hotels were 
overflowing, every street was bursting with visit- 
ors and the Brooklyn Bridge at evening seemed deso- 
late in comparison to the confusion and uproar to 
be found in any one of a thousand alleys. I found 
a little attic corner in an isolated inn where I could 
spend the night. As yet Heidelberg did not identify 
itself with any of my hopeful expectations. After 
a chat with the host upon the beauties of the his- 
toric town, I succumbed to his irresistible logic, 
aided by the charm of a wondrous German dinner 
and admitted that it must be a fine place. 

With the gathering of the night, the din of the 
streets sank into a distant lull. A Heidelberg moon 
appeared, and the lights of the Neckar twinkled in 
their most alluring manner. Under the gloom of 
heavy branches of the boulevard trees, within sound 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 59 

of the music from the distant celebrators, accompan- 
ied by the gurgling of the flowing river, here indeed 
one could visualize the favorite play of romance, 
"Old Heidelberg." A stroll about the modest, silent 
university buildings reposing in their traditions and 
memories, with a glimpse of the moon-capped Schloss 
emerging from the foliage of the black mountainside, 
completed the poetic inspiration of this evening of 
illusion. 

With the awakening morn, reality also dawned, 
to the utter rout of the impressions of the evening 
before. The streets seemed narrower and more suf- 
focating, the crowds noisier and more dense. I fled 
from the town to the scenes of the previous night. 
All was changed. Motor boats chugged up and down 
the surface of the oily, sullied river, and distempered 
children fretted their weary mothers on every seat 
under the cool trees. The houses over the river, the 
lamps of which twinkled bewitchingly last night, 
were today hideous in their bare, blatant prosiness. 
The old university had lost its dignity and its 
cramped courtyard seemed desolate and barren. 
Heidelberg of romance was gone — a whited sepulchre 
remained. 

After a long search for the charm of yester 
eve, I gave up before the reality which met me at 
every street corner, and with a sigh and a new hope, 
I left for Dresden, the city of art. 

The long journey from Heidelberg to Dresden 
was my farewell tour of the natural Germany. The 
artificial Germany, the land of big cities, was to 



60 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 

come. The train dragged along the sloping foot- 
hills into the fir-covered mountains of Saxony, the 
highest point in the empire. The Neckar dwindled 
from a stately river into a mountain stream which 
finally failed us, and left us to complete the trip un- 
accompanied. Dresden, Leipzig, Berlin and Hanover 
fell before my attack. Subtract the minor differ- 
ences in dress, tongue and architecture, and substi- 
tute any large city, with its usual amount of local 
institutions of interest, and you have not only these 
cities, but all the cities of the world for your con- 
sideration. Cities are cities, and cannot vary beyond 
certain narrow limits. Hence, at one mouthful I 
complete a tedious half week of touring. 

But the best part of the summer was ahead. 
Having completed my pilgrimage along the broad 
highway, well-beaten down by countless tourist-feet, 
I was to be rewarded for my endurance. Friends in- 
vited me into a charming by-way, there to live the 
life of the lowly peasant, close to the hidden heart 
of the country folk. It requires but time and money 
to gaze at the exterior of a nation's life, but special 
invitation is needed before the stranger may enter 
its inner chambers. Thus, having commented upon 
the architecture and superficialities of the house, I 
enter, with my camera and note-book, ready for in- 
stant action. 



Part III.— Among the Peasants 



AMONG THE PEASANTS 

LIKE a huge bird of prey, I wheeled over the 
German empire, tracing a huge circle, and 
landed in a tiny Teutonic Arcadia. From the 
thriving city of Osnabrueck, in central Hanover, 
I degenerated in my mode of travel from imperial 
express-trains, to back-breaking and nerve-racking 
locals, to a still-worse country train which bumped 
along its ancient track, jumping over broken 
switches and gaps in the rail, trusting blindly in the 
engineer, who was conductor and brakeman and any 
other necessary member of the crew all in one, until 
it pulled up with a sigh and jolt at the little station 
of Bad-Essen. From that point my own legs took 
me along a winding road, five kilometers further in- 
land, and two centuries back, until, by token of a 
small collection of white-washed cottages buried un- 
der giant lindens, I knew I had arrived at Huesede. 
My host and his family stood at the open door- 
way of the first house. I was wise enough not to 
ruin my initial popularity by talking overmuch in 
High German, and I did not then possess my later 
confidence in the Low German of that district, so 
that I maintained an uncommunicative bearing. In- 
cidentally, regarding Low German, if one will 
attempt to gurgle "baby-talk" in German, lose his 



64 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 

regard for grammar, and speak quickly enough to 
hide his deeper ignorance, he may use the Hanoverian 
"Plat-deutsch" as his mother-tongue! 

I murmured my greetings to the receiving line 
before me. In Germany, one shakes hands upon the 
slightest provocation, and so I grasped the prof- 
fered digits, making sure that when I reached those 
of the children, mine had a "Groschen" in it for each 
of them. This coup d'etat guaranteed my favor. I 
discovered later, however, that I had exceeded my- 
self, for various children of the village, forewarned 
of my arrival, were on hand, and profited by my 
diplomacy. 

As I entered the huge doorway, I found myself 
in a barn. This was the common room of the entire 
household, including all the various species of live- 
stock. First came the dog's corner, lined with his 
nest of rye. Next to this was the apartment of a 
grandmother sow, who welcomed me in her guttural 
voice from under the pen gate. Then the wood bin 
interposed itself between the sow's quarters and a 
little bedroom, formerly that of the household drudge 
and now used by one of the family who vacated a 
better room for my use. Opposite this suite, along 
the other side of the hall, extended the headquarters 
of two cows, a litter of unmannerly pigs, and the 
granary — the happy hunting ground of the terrier 
who found there mice like dogs and rats like boars. 
Beyond a door, window and trough at this point 
came the kitchen stove. Overhead, the empty loft 
reached up into dark shadows. Smoke-tanned raf- 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 65 

ters, on which perched drowsy fowl and mammoth 
sides o£ bacon, reached from end to end of the caver- 
nous "parlor." Beyond the wall next to the stove 
extended three rooms, stone-floored and plaster- 
walled. The middle of these was the dining salon, 
and the better of the remaining two was pointed out 
as my sanctum. 

My new home was a typical house of the Ger- 
man agricola. In size, it was the equal of a small 
barn. The entire establishment was on the ground 
floor, with the exception of the loft, in which the 
hens hid their eggs. The building was a perfect ob- 
long, perhaps fifty feet in length and half as wide. 
Its walls were like those of a fort. The German 
does everything with an air of permanence. The 
thick stone sides of our cottage had been raised cen- 
turies ago, and they seemed to have defied the hand 
of time. Huge oak beams were set lengthwise into 
them, the edges of which came flush with the sur- 
face of the wall. On the outside, the square spaces 
of the wall boxed in by these oak beams were plas- 
tered over and white-washed. The surfaces of the 
beams were blackened by time, so that the cottage 
had a plaid appearance. The usual roof of the rural 
districts is thatched, but new insurance regulations 
are responsible for the adoption of the red tile roof. 
In such a secluded district as ours, however, it was 
no unusual sight to see a thatched roof, faded and 
worn under a score of summer suns and storms, with 
verdant moss growing over it, seeking to hide the 
dulness of the straw, and here and there, a tuft of 



66 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 



grass, or perhaps a vine, sprouting from some more 

fertile spot. 

Picture about fifty such cottages as this, half 
hidden under the arms of century-old trees, and 
squatting like setting hens along a winding road- 
way and you see the little village of Huesede. 

After the evening meal, which is held rather late 
in the night, for the long twilight is utilized by 
these thrifty farmers, it was time to retire, so that 
we could be up at daybreak— four-thirty ! I set my 
candle on the edge of a mammoth chest which was to 
serve as my bureau. A crude bench, this chest, and 
the heavy, bulging bedstead made up the furnishings 
of my room. Under the bench I found a new pair 
of slippers set out for me— tremendous wooden shoes, 
which little tempted me to slip my feet into their 
cold, cavernous depths. The atmosphere of per- 
manence was here, in every object which outfitted the 
small, stone-floored room. The sturdy bureau must 
have been hewn and assembled by some medieval car- 
penter, and the bed told, by its gigantic members, of 
generations long outrun which had slept and died in 

its arms. 

I soon discovered a vast difference between this 
and the hotel beds I had just left. The mattress was 
a bundle of wheat straw, fresh from the loft, the 
sheets were of home-made linen which had the sur- 
face of sand-paper. It required a few wakeful nights 
before the bed softened or I hardened. The next 
morning I was awakened by a deafening din, which 
I later learned to ignore. It was caused by the reso- 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 67 



nant, hollow clatter of the many pairs of wooden 
shoes scuffling over the stone flooring of the large, 
common room, by the calls of the cows, pigs and 
poultry for their morning attentions, by the tuning- 
up barks of the wakening dog, and the shouts of the 
busy household. I then had the arcadian pleasure of 
shaving in the courtyard, under an apple tree which 
shaded the icy well. After the first day of this new 
life, my metamorphosis into a German peasant began, 
and I soon learned that rough manners and crude 
living in no way enter the heart. The one who eats 
only with knife and fingers, and who has never 
learned to use pocket handkerchiefs has not, by 
virtue of this fact, a boorish character. 

My hosts, in order of rank, are O'pa, the grand- 
father of the household, Heinrich, his son, the active 
head of the farm and house, and his children, Lisa, 
Fritz, Hinnick and Clamor. The poor wife had 
recently gone the way of several of her younger 
children. 

O'pa, judging from his gait, disposition and play- 
fulness, is about twenty, but after one hears his tales 
of the early days, before there was a Germany and 
when he would have given his life rather than be 
ruled over by a Prussian, his age is placed at about 
ninety. He has but one eye, always has a heavy 
beard, so that I did not know whether a shave was 
due or I was to regard his growth as permanent whis- 
kers. An old, black cap, which with age is now 
quite green, sits rakishly on his head and comes off 
only when the children say grace at table. His 



68 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 

sturdy limbs were strong enough to tire me in a 
long tramp over the hillsides, and his tanned, seamed 
face beams with contented happiness on all members 
of the household. He has a gruff voice only to the 
dog, and after scolding him, I have often noticed 
that the old gentleman pats the little beast upon the 
head to signify that it was not meant unkindly. His 
greatest joy is in helping the others with their as- 
signed tasks, for he has long been exempt from 
regular work. When there is nothing of this sort 
that he can do, he culls sweet clover grass so that 
in the evening the tired cows may have an extra dish 
for their supper. He talks with the pigs, who grunt,— 
I believe in Low German — a secret conversation with 
him; and all say that, by his mysterious language, he 
can keep the chickens out of the granary for weeks 
at a time. 

Heinrich, the master of the house, is as spare as 
his thin, woeful moustaches. He is plainly over- 
worked in his task of conquering the land of his 
little farm, and forcing it to yield a living to his 
dependents. He is inordinately diligent, as sensi- 
tive and tender as a woman, and conceals under his 
coarse shirt the sorrows of the past. I soon found 
that his delight was to sit with the two youngest 
boys upon his lean knees, and, puffing on a cigar, vile 
as only German cigars can be, to amuse his audience 
by dry, cautious humor of the sort which never pro- 
vokes a laugh, but always a smile. The farmers main- 
tain a system of co-operation in their work, each 
helping his neighbor and being helped in turn. The 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 69 

goodhearted Heinrich, however, suffers under this 
plan, for he gives far more than he receives, and as 
this virtue is well known to his fellows, he is cor- 
dially liked and generally abused by them. 

The commonest phrase of Low German that I 
heard in my new home was, "Lisa, wo bis a!" It was 
to call Lisa, the seventeen-year old daughter of the 
house, to a new task. In the absence of the mother, 
who had completed her work years before, Lisa was 
the drudge of the establishment. Her distinguish- 
ing qualities were her indolence, her delight in 
screeching old ballads in a decidedly flat key, and 
in quarreling with her younger brother, Fritz. Fritz, 
too, had not yet reconciled himself to a life of labor, 
and resisted — quite successfully — all attempt to make 
him work. It was, in both cases, the spirit of youth 
rebelling against ugly realities. Farm life is hardly 
ever a pastoral poem, and always less so in Germany, 
where small holdings, large families, heavy taxes and 
a neighboring landlord all combine to sap rural de- 
lights from this ancient calling. The two remaining 
children were, as yet, like the terrier, of no par- 
ticular use, and only something to play with. 

All the family had excellent lungs. It seemed 
that the peasant could never talk; he must always 
shout. Until I was able to fathom their speech, I 
thought that every conversation was an altercation. 
A chat during the noonday meal sounded like a 
brawl, and an evening card game, the popular "sixty- 
six," was like a battle, with its din of triumphant 



70 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 



shouts or despairing wails, and its cannonading of 
heavy, calloused fists upon the deal table. 



After the first few days of adjustment to my 
new life, the spirit of the countryside entered into 
my soul. Here was the real, the genuine. None of 
the conventions of the city nor the artificialities of 
its life were to be found. The little villages of the 
Kreis browsed securely under the protection of the 
hills which swung in a vast circle about us. Heavy 
woods clothed the sides of these infant mountains, 
and the tall trees at their tops heightened the mod- 
est dignity which they boasted. It was a rich delight 
to sit under the edge of this verdant cloak, and gaze 
over the peaceful plain. The broad, shallow valley 
seemed like a checker board, with the different col- 
ored "sheffel-sads," — oblong strips of about a quar- 
ter-acre — heavy with a summer's increase. The 
varied produce, rye, oats and wheat, gave to the 
scene their mellow hues of green and yellow. A still 
peace filled the air, to be interrupted by no harsher 
sound than the faint, distant barking of a playful 
dog, the crowing of the barnyard fowl, or the soft- 
ened whetting of scythes in the far-off fields. Here 
one found no single masterpiece of natural scenery. 
It was a landscape in which a thousand indescribable 
beauties contributed their charms to the collective 
whole. It was a beauty of man and nature combined, 
one that no tourist would travel far to see or buy 
post-card views of its splendor. It was rather a set- 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 71 

ting for an invisible idea — peace, content and 
quietude. 

To be in a mineral spring district and not to 
bathe would be worse than seeing New York and 
omitting the Statue of Liberty. Hence, I braved 
my ignorance of custom in taking a German bath, and 
entered the Bad-Haus. It was like a modest coun- 
try boarding-house, with the conveniences, or lack 
of them, for guests who spend vacations and money 
for recreation, health and cleanliness. A little gar- 
den, with tables, shady groves and playing children 
in it, extended about the building. One enters a 
lobby, registers, orders a bath and a drink, and while 
waiting for both sits down to read the thumb-marked 
comic papers. No less a personage than the pro- 
prietor, armed with soap and towel, ushered me along 
a vast hallway, from which opened large bathrooms. 
After the necessary preparations, I advanced upon 
the steaming tub of water awaiting me — to my sor- 
row ! I found that German tubs are to be approached 
with caution. I stepped into it, and sank waist-high 
in its depths, barking my shins in my fall. The 
tubs are set deeply into the flooring, like small pools, 
and when the artless stranger steps into their seem- 
ing shallow water, he plunges into an abyss of sul- 
phurous liquid. 

These troughs are made of wood, to prevent the 
action of the minerals in the water. Through huge 
pipes the stream rushes into them with terrible force, 
controlled by valves of giant size. The compartment 
looked more like an engine room than a bath. After 



72 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 

my ordeal was ended, I concluded that one must 
either be a philosopher or a wretched invalid to 
spend a summer's vacation in such a place. 

To remain idle in a household busy from dawn 
to sunset with the countless affairs of farm life was 
too much for me. I soon became a tolerable farm 
hand, and was educated into the mysteries of Ger- 
man farming. "Economy" is the unexpressed, domi- 
nating character of every act. 

No fences are to be found. The strips of land 
are separated by narrow ditches used in draining the 
fields, and no protection is needed from the cattle, 
for they are never pastured. The cows, instead of 
supplying milk as a chief pursuit, have a multitude 
of duties to perform. They are primarily the beasts 
of burden. Horses are too expensive and unproduc- 
tive. The patient cows drag heavy farm wagons all 
day, and at eventide give a bountiful yield of milk, 
as much as do our American beasts of leisure. They 
are housed in commodious box stalls, as if they were 
thoroughbred horses, and because of their extreme 
value, are well fed and well groomed. The German 
farmer thinks that all his livestock should be better 
treated than the human members of his family, for 
they are quite as valuable to him and more helpless 
than his sons and daughters. One advantage in keep- 
ing his cows in their stalls over night, is that the 
peasant may utilize their manure for fertilizer, and 
fertilizer is a most important factor in his care of 
his fields. The careful sowing, with a wide variety 
of produce, and the laborious fertilizing and irriga- 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 73 



tion, result in making the land yield more than ten 
times the amount which the American farmer ob- 
tains from his comparatively neglected fields. The 
German peasant works continually to build up the 
strength of the soil in order to provide for the har- 
vests of the future, but the American farmer squeezes 
dry the native richness of his soil and then abandons 
his farm — or sells it as city building lots! 

Every available foot of ground is cultivated. 
Along the roadside is planted rye and wheat, and 
very often even the railroad embankments are thus 
utilized. In many cases, the luxury of keeping a 
strong, healthy dog is mitigated by compelling the 
unwilling beast to drag a small, well laden cart 
along the flat roadways. 

The method of land tenure still bears some re- 
semblance to the manorial system. The landlord, 
usually a rich peasant, who, by skillful marriage, has 
acquired a large holding, rents the land he cannot 
conveniently use, with a farmhouse of the usual un- 
varying type, for an annual rental together with a 
few days' labor each week. The usual requirement is 
three days a week, and as these are not in general 
specified, the tenant may be called upon to work in 
his landlord's fields almost whenever the latter so 
desires. Sometimes this work is "double labor," that 
is, the tenant must supply two people to work for the 
owner. In some cases, a nominal sum is paid for 
this work, and meals are usually provided for the 
workers. In this part of Hanover, the tenant received 



74 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 

about fifteen cents for his day's wage, this to be de- 
ducted from his rent. 

Unlike American farms, the houses of the farm- 
ers are all located in the little villages, and the fields 
may be quite a distance away. As farms the size of 
our middle-western holdings are totally unknown, 
it is rarely that the hamlets are more than a mile or 
so apart, for between them lie the fields of the vil- 
lagers. The manorial system is again recalled when 
one sees the long strips of land, each one planted 
with a different grain, and usually held by different 
tenants. Convenience is not considered in hiring 
these plots. They are rented by the landlord to the 
earliest applicant, and it is seldom that any tenant 
gets all his strips together in a single area. The 
average holding is perhaps about five acres. In each 
village, the farmer who owns the most land is given 
the number one; the next richest owner is number 
two, and so on. Thus a simple system of financial 
rating is provided, and each farmer proudly, or 
humbly, puts his number over the large door of his 
cottage. This numerical rating is probably used in 
the tax office of each district. 

All the farmers unite to help each other during 
harvest time, for which service they receive no other 
compensation than free drinks — usually beer, prefer- 
ably "schnapps." The grain is brought into the barns 
as quickly as possible, for the harvest weather is 
treacherous. A custom very costly to the man who 
stands upon the wagon load and pitches the sheaves 
of grain from it to his fellows up in the loft, pro- 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 75 

vides that for every time his pitchfork is caught so 
that he cannot release it on the toss, he must buy a 
round of drinks for all. After a heavy day's work, 
the poor chap usually owes his colleagues a rousing 
night's sport in the tavern. The same rule holds for 
the man in the loft who fails to catch the sheaf on 
the toss and lets it fall back upon the wagon again. 

Neighbors in the small hamlets are usually rela- 
tives. They form a large family, and lead a corporate 
life. When a young peasant brings a bride from a 
near-by village, no matter how close, she is regarded 
as a sort of foreigner. At harvest time, one enter- 
prising farmer will rent a steam thresher, set it up 
in his courtyard, and bring the crops of the village to 
his barnyard. Payment of threshing is either in 
cash or kind, usually the latter, for the peasant would 
naturally prefer to yield a part of his grain than any 
of his golden twenty-mark pieces. 

Next to the village baker, who possesses the only 
large baking oven in the place, and who bakes every- 
body's bread, the best-known man, and by far the 
richest character, is the barber. One morning he cut 
my hair for the equivalent of three cents and that 
event was the beginning of our acquaintance. He 
lives in the two rooms of the old, abandoned school- 
house. On clear days his shop is under the linden 
before his door, and on rainy days — well, one does 
not go out for a shave or hair-cut in wet weather. 
He is old beyond years, his white hair seems to grow 
in clumps or patches on his aged head. His face 
is of many colors, mostly reds. The skin of his face 



76 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 

is a veritable accordion of wrinkles, and the two 
teeth which he still possesses are insufficient to keep 
his chin from nearly touching the tip of his nose 
when he is not smiling, which is very seldom. With 
all his exterior attributes of age, however, he has the 
spirit of youth fast within him, and dearly loves a 
practical joke. Whenever the Vorsteher, the village 
mayor, comes to him for a hair-cut, the old boy takes 
fiendish delight in shaving the back of his neck bare 
to the crown, and persuading the official that such is 
the style with all prominent statesmen. Each Satur- 
day he carries his kit of razors from house to house, 
shaving his customers for two and a half cents a face, 
and cutting their hair at a little above three cents a 
head. As the farmers need his offices but once week- 
ly, trade is often slack with him and so he amuses 
himself by catching flies on his kitchen table, or in 
his greatest joy of all, chatting at the village Wirt- 
schaft, with whomsoever. The old gentleman wears 
his pewter-framed spectacles on the very tip of his 
nose, giving an unobstructed sight of his little, shin- 
ing eyes, which dance in a sprightly manner as he 
talks. When he is "dressed up," with his hair well 
soaped, with his old walking-stick in his hand, and a 
new, bright pair of wooden shoes on his feet, he is 
indeed a rare sight. 

He is the "town character" and is justly proud 
of his distinction. His spinster daughter who lives 
with him, scolds, threatens and pets him, and he en- 
joys it all. He steals lumps of sugar from the larder 
and frequently stays in the tavern until early morn- 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 77 

ing, singing to the assembled farmers. He enjoyed 
the most enviable distinction given to mortal man — 
that o£ being the bright spot in a grey day. 

One of the most general and permanent things 
in this changing world is human nature. From this 
single and very vague idea come the most diverse of 
all our earthly institutions — human customs. A na- 
tion is more distinguished by its customs and lan- 
guage than by its geographical situation. We know, 
love and hate peoples, not by and for their govern- 
mental and political characteristics, but because of 
the manners, characters, customs of their race. 

Of the many peasant customs which one meets 
with in Germany the most interesting have to do 
with the two greatest events of life, that is, after 
birth itself. Weddings and funerals are big events 
in the village. Upon a death in a household, the near- 
est neighbor is required to don his long Sunday coat, 
— of the Prince Albert type, found in every house- 
hold — put on his silk hat, and call upon all the vil- 
lagers to tell them of the sad news. Many of them, 
perhaps, know of the event even before the neighbor, 
but etiquette demands that not a door be passed. 
At each house, the messenger of sorrow receives a 
glass of brandy in return for his news, which, eti- 
quette again insisting, he must drink. In a good-sized 
village, where many calls must be made, the happy 
neighbor is quite incoherent at the end of his route. 
At the funeral services, which are usually held in 
the large, barn-like room where the cattle and live- 



78 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 

stock sit idly by for this short holiday, there is 
served a goodly meal, which is prepared by the fam- 
ily of the next-door neighbor. The members of the 
bereaved household are not allowed to do a thing in 
the affairs of this day. For once, they may have all 
the time they desire, in which to think, to weep, and 
mourn. At such a time, the petty animosities of vil- 
lage life are swept aside, and nothing prevents all 
the people of the hamlet from stopping in at the 
gloomy door, saying a few stammering words, and 
receiving some refreshments. 

Invitations and announcements regarding wed- 
dings are also made by a Sunday-garbed neighbor, 
and the same ritual is performed for him, only per- 
haps the glass of brandy is a bit larger. As a rule, 
the bride goes for the marriage ceremony to the 
home of the bridegroom, for that is where she is to 
labor the rest of her days. However, in case the 
bride owns property, or is to inherit the farm, the 
man goes to her home, and after marriage assumes her 
family name. Then upon death of her parents, he 
succeeds to the property. In this manner the name 
of the land-owner is permanently identified with the 
land, and never changes. Although it may not be 
required by the government, this custom must be a 
boon to the clerks in the tax office. Of course, a 
marriage would not be complete without a feast, and 
in Germany, when experienced housewives prepare 
a feast for months in advance, it is usually one that 
provokes dire indigestion and delightful memories! 
As the bridal couple drive homeward from the church, 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 79 

if it be a church wedding, they are rich prey for 
all the children upon the highroad. The children 
pull the mild horse to a standstill, and stretch out 
smudgy hands to the laughing groom. He must 
answer with a few small coins, each of these de- 
mands, for which he has long saved. 

All the country folk are afraid of the thunder 
storm. I do not mean that they merely blink their 
eyes, or stop their ears at a particularly loud burst 
of noise. They are put into extreme terror by it. 
As soon as the black clouds creep over the top of the 
neighboring hills, all doors and windows are care- 
fully closed and locked, for as they believe, the 
slightest draft is enough to suck in the lightning- 
stroke. No jests are allowed during the passage of 
a storm. The dread bolt might fall upon the house- 
hold where the slightest smile is permitted. In the 
night, the people get out of bed, dress, light all the 
lamps, and prepare for a hasty exodus. The valu- 
ables are collected, and the family gathers about the 
animals, ready to lead them out the very moment the 
stroke comes. This great fear is perhaps accounted 
for by the fact that one stroke of lightning deprives 
the peasant of everything he possesses. Tradition 
and history in his little village tell him of the ruin 
caused by this dread element, and he readily believes 
that his turn will come at any minute. The heedless 
regard of the urban American is explained by the 
knowledge that, among so many people, the chance 
of his being the victim is greatly diminished. So 
when I, in my ignorance of the fear which they felt. 



80 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 

laughed at the folk for their elaborate precautions, 
I was frowned into silence, and had to remain mute 
while my hosts prayed for their safety. 

Too much cannot be said for the patient diligence 
and humble contentment of the rustic German. The 
men of the family out-labor the American farmer, 
not, perhaps because they wish to, but from the ne- 
cessity of so doing. Their content springs not from 
an Arcadian philosophy of the joys in their simple 
life, but because all about them is found the same 
condition. In the rural districts there are few sum- 
mer homes with their idle owners, to instil envy and 
covetousness in the minds of the farmers. They have 
been brought up in their work, and to them it repre- 
sents life. The caste system, while not an institu- 
tion preached directly to their ears, exists as a silent 
factor in their life. Few of the lads cast longing 
eyes towards the cities. Perhaps what I term con- 
tent may be resignation to a condition which must be 
faced. At any rate, the peasant is simple, and sub- 
missive to the demands of his environment. This 
spirit of content or resignation may be largely re- 
sponsible for the lack of progressiveness which is so 
obvious in the farming country. The people are will- 
ing to live in the manner of their forefathers. New 
inventions are rarely heard of, and the conveniences 
of American farm life would be branded as impos- 
sible, unattainable imaginings. I told one old farmer 
that in New York, which he had but vaguely known 
of, there was a building fifty and more stories high. 
He merely laughed and shook his head. He knew 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 81 

that in Hanover some houses reached the glorious 
height of six stories, because his son had seen them, 
but fifty — it was impossible. "Why," he said, "that 
would reach up to heaven." 

The peasant believes, to a limited extent, in areo- 
planes and dirigibles because his weekly newspaper 
acquaints him with all governmental military inven- 
tions. But subways, express elevators, dictographs, 
piano-players and men who change their clothes 
three times a day, — all these are impossible! They 
are as far into the future for him as they were to 
Christopher Columbus. Conception and credulity 
have been worn from his imagination by the prosaic 
intrusion of the facts of village life. 

The lot of the peasant woman is vastly different 
from that of the American farmer's wife. She is not 
only the housekeeper and the mother of a very large 
family, but also a most efficient farm-hand. When she 
is walking or riding in a springless cart to the fields, 
or to town, she knits socks for her family. She knits 
and sews before her stove while preparing the din- 
ner, and in company with her husband when he 
smokes his clay pipe after the work of the day. 
One day a week, Sunday, she may walk over to her 
neighbor's house and gossip with her cronies, yet 
often this day of rest is spent in some less impera- 
tive duty which has been neglected during the week. 
I could explain to myself perhaps incorrectly the 
submissiveness of the German farmer, but how the 
housewife can endure her lot with no more protest 
than a sigh of weariness, is beyond my ken. 



82 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 

Politics, the delight of our rural life, are never 
discussed. Even in the early days of the European 
war, I was surprised by the lack of opinion expressed 
in the groups of anxious peasants about the bulletin 
boards. The government is a huge, silent thing 
which one does not speak of, and which is thought 
of as little as possible. Notwithstanding, I feel 
bound to state that, despite various and exaggerated 
reports, the German peasant, the true representative 
of that virile nation, is no "terrible Hun," no blood- 
thirsty beast, but is, like all the rest of our human 
family, intensely human, with all the faults and de- 
lightful virtues which make up good fellows. 



Part IV.— The Retreat Before Mars 



THE RETREAT BEFORE MARS 

THE summer sun, the summer nature, the sum- 
mer peace,— all gave bountifully of their 
charms to the children of the earth. Na- 
ture sang, the children of nature sang, and in the 
heart of man there was also a song. Far off, beyond 
a cloaking horizon, low murmurings resounded, and 
were carried by a perfume-tinted breeze over the 
bosom of a summer's landscape. These foreboding 
voices of evil day were too indistinct,— and the heart 
of man played on. Suddenly, out of the azure shot 
the Hammer of Thor. Dark clouds assembled from 
the bodies of invisible vapors. The storm of wrath 
was gathered from the deeps of The Powers. 
Ragged and torn, the whipped clouds scudded over 
the still-smiling face of a startled nature. War had 
come, and joy had flown before his lowering counte- 
nance. Mars again ruled the world. 

Like a dreamer, fallen asleep over the idle oars 
of his pleasure craft, the people were gruffly awak- 
ened by the roar of the Hell which had overtaken 
them. 

The most horrible phase of war is the domestic. 
At the front, upon the firing line, is to be seen one 
kmd of horror, but far behind the trenches, back in 



86 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 

the homes of the warriors, are infinitely varied 
species of agony and distress. On the battle ground 
is but one thought, one desire, one thirst, — to kill. 
In the home, the entire scale of the emotions is 
racked daily by hopes, fears, dread rumors, — and 
more dreaded reports. 

At the front, high-priced war artists draw the 
gruesome and lurid details of the day's work. 
Human hate, human fear, and the brutish elements of 
death-strife, all these can be forever told by the 
facile brush of the war artist. It is beyond the 
power of brush or pen, however, to catch the momen- 
tary throbs of hope, the sickening dread, the dry- 
eyed realization, and the broken heart. These are 
the Unutterable. They are found in the cottages, 
now silent and empty, where formerly was heard 
the homely sounds of domestic activity and joy. 
This side of Mars's cloak does not provide feature 
stories or extra editions in our newspapers. Des- 
patches of this misery are not hurled from capital 
to province, from town to town. Our deluge of 
periodic literature contains no drop of this gall. 
Truly, the most horrible phase of war is the do- 
mestic. 

Yet, the diminished households have not their 
present misery from mere sentiment at the departure 
of a husband or son for the front, but from a more 
real, tangible need. This is not said to belittle the 
unspeakable anguish of those innocent victims who 
remain behind, and wait in their helplessness. The 
distress of the heart can ill be put into words or 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 87 

pictures, but material and physical distress may be 
measured in some way by outward signs. 

Generally speaking, at her present condition, 
Germany is an agricultural nation. In that section 
o£ Hanover where I visited, the entire district is 
given over to farming. Here, as throughout the em- 
pire, the soil holds the fortunes of the vast majority 
of its people. 

The summer was an unusually good one for 
crops. But, towards the end of July, when the time 
had come to commence the reaping, a prolonged 
period of rainy weather set in. Every day for over 
two weeks the countryside was drenched by heavy 
showers or violent storms. It meant ruin for the 
peasant farmers. Not only were the crops so thor- 
oughly soaked as to make reaping impossible between 
showers, but the heavy winds had laid the grain flat 
upon the earth. The danger was imminent that the 
crops would "turn under" and resprout in the rich, 
moist loam. 

The last few days of July were tense ones, both 
agriculturally and politically. "Extrablatts" ap- 
peared upon the trees of all public places in the rural 
hamlets, telling of the Austro-Servian disorders, and 
Russia's hostile attitude. Rumors of mobilization 
spread broadcast from village to village, the simple 
awe of the peasants magnifying the situation in a 
most grotesque manner. Before Germany had taken 
any active steps towards arming, rumors reached us 
that the Kaiser was leading an army to St. Peters- 



88 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 

burg, when at that time he was still away on his 
summer tour. 

The gravity of the domestic situation, however, 
could be gathered by the manner in which the far- 
mers deserted the dread question of war, and dis- 
cussed a tragedy closer and more vital to them, — the 
harvest. By this time the rye had begun to resprout 
in the fields. 

Saturday, the first of August, dawned clear and 
bright, and the skilled farmers predicted a period 
of good harvest weather. Preparations for a speedy 
reaping were made, and the despondent spirits of 
the peasants arose. But late that afternoon an ill- 
timed rumor reached the villages that mobilization 
had been declared. It was not long before the offi- 
cial bulletins posted before the rural churches and 
announced by village criers, proclaimed the dread 
truth. 

"Es ist Mobil! Est ist Mobil!" was called from 
field to field, from house to house in the tiny hamlets. 
The call to arms had come, and the harvest lay 
neglected. 

Before daybreak on Sunday, August second, the 
men left their country fields and cottages for the 
army headquarters. The troop trains left at early 
morning, to save time and to prevent heartsore 
mothers and wives from going to the stations for a 
last farewell. There was no time for sentiment. 
All through the night sounded the pounding of 
heavy-shod horses on the roads. They were the huge 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 89 

well-reared beasts chosen by the army inspectors 
for military service. 

Each year, cavalry officers visit the villages and 
select the best horse-flesh there for use in the army 
at the first call. The farmers are paid a moderate 
price for their animals, and, upon pain of confiscation, 
are compelled to send the beasts thus designated, and 
those alone. It is no strange sight now to see a 
worn, old horse harnessed to a farm wagon with a 
patient, plodding cow. War calls forth the best 
horses as well as men. 

Throughout the first week of August the coun- 
try was drained of its young, vigorous men. I found 
that in a neighboring town in our district, with a 
total population of 750, more than half of which 
were women and children, fifty-five men were called 
forth on the first day of mobilization. This is a 
typical example of the greed of modern warfare. 

By the end of the first week in August, the 
Landwehr, which may be termed the army for the 
offense, was moving towards Russia and France, 
leaving the countryside destitute of its vigor. What 
few men remained, unfit for rigorous service, were 
wofully insufficient for the harvesting. Old men 
and women were not able to mow, sheath, thresh and 
store the acres of grain, still uncut and over-ripe in 
the fields. Most of the threshing is still performed 
in primitive fashion, by the flail upon the barn floor. 
A deep wound was inflicted upon the agricultural 
life of the nation, which could not be healed. 

I wondered greatly at the patient fortitude of 



90 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 

the lowly farmer in Germany, for his lot was not 
enviable even before the war. As far as I could 
ascertain, the work of the year netted hardly more 
than a bare, meagre existence. The German peas- 
ant is not surrounded by the luxuries which are 
necessities to the American farmer. He lives in a 
cottage little better than a barn, has no more domes- 
tic conveniences than the average camper, eats 
coarse food, barely covers his body with crude 
clothing, and is always pinched to meet his rents 
and taxes. I say I wondered at his existence before 
the war, but I shudder to think of his future. The 
recovery is hideous; more taxes, more hard, wearing 
labor, and fewer results. It was for no lack of reason, 
then, that a cry of despair arose from the rural folk 
when war was declared. 

From midnight on August first, all trains were 
in the hands of the war department. Between every 
station armed guards paced the tracks, and the 
slightest act of suspicion was followed by a death- 
shot from these patrols. No regular passenger 
trains were running. The mobilization trains, ply- 
ing to and from the army headquarters, were jammed 
with recruits. 

When a thunder-storm mars the pleasure of an 
outing, one goes indoors and waits until it is over- 
past. I waited. After a week of waiting, the clouds 
were darker than ever, and the vision of the Statue 
of Liberty became more and more alluring. Ger- 
man steamers were held in port and all sailings were 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 91 

cancelled. It was necessary to seek another outlet, 
and so I left my lowly cottage and its warm-hearted 
occupants, to work my way, with a host of fellow 
tourists, towards Holland, the country of refuge. 

I made an eventful trip from the country into 
the city of Osnabrueck, the district headquarters. 
Our train was a troop special, and was composed of 
about thirty cars. A host of young recruits were 
jammed into all classes of coaches. They rode in 
freight cars, first class carriages, flat cars, — in fact 
upon anything that could be pulled over the rails. 
The men, who were going for their arms and equip- 
ment, had pulled down branches from the trees in 
passing, and had decorated the train with them, so 
that it had the appearance of a moving forest. No 
evidence of enthusiasm or willingness to serve was 
lacking. 

The air was filled with lusty war and patriotic 
songs. The war of 1870 had supplied Germany 
with a large stock of martial verse. Thousands of 
hoarse voices shouted "Deutschland, Deutschland 
ueber alles," "Die Wacht am Rhein," and "Ich hat' 
einen Cameraden." The two favorites of 1870 were 
revived, which run, "We'll hit France with a vic- 
tory," and "As I marched against France in 1870, I 
smeared Napoleon's boots with petroleum." Another 
American, recognizing me as a countryman, crossed 
the station platform to remark, "One would think 
these chaps were going on a Democratic ward picnic, 
instead of to their death." 

At every station on the way more men piled onto 



92 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 

the crowded cars, and girls ran alongside the train 
distributing mammoth sandwiches and huge goblets 
of coffee to the hungry draft. Within a wide area 
about all railway stations no liquor in any form was 
on sale. A wealthy cigar manufacturer had his fam- 
ily at one station, and with them he distributed about 
1000 boxes of cigars daily, until his supply was de- 
pleted. Everybody provided for the recruits en 
route. In the poorer districts, where the folk had 
not enough food to give the men, contributions were 
taken, and it was seldom that the peasants did not 
give a half-mark for provisioning the hungry sol- 
diers. The much-abused term "German efficiency" 
means largely a hearty co-operation between the war- 
riors and non-combatants. 

From crossways and fields along the tracks 
groups of women and children waved their adieux to 
the departing trains, and all received hearty cheers 
in response. 

During the first week of the war the city of 
Osnabrueck was a huge barracks. Here the men 
streamed in from all directions, reported to their 
officers and received equipment. Everywhere one 
heard the crunching of the heavy, nail-shod boots 
and saw the new, fog-grey uniforms, fresh from the 
quartermaster's stores. Groups of newly-made 
troopers, proud in their new possessions, strolled 
about and enjoyed their last moments of leisure and 
recreation. Here, too, were to be found no alcoholic 
drinks, for, from now on, military discipline was su- 
perior to personal appetite. In all the parks and 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 93 

squares, companies of infantry and field artillery 
were drilling, watched and cheered by thousands of 
their released brothers. The place looked more like 
a magnificent military tournament than a rapid or- 
ganization of Germany's fighting machine. In the 
cities no business was done, and with the exception 
of military stations, the smaller towns were deserted. 

The citizens of Osnabrueck had to lodge and feed 
in their homes three troopers each, for which a nomi- 
nal sum was paid. This was irksome to even the 
most patriotic, for to feed three lusty youths, with 
food at war prices, was a severe strain upon national 
enthusiasm. 

Each evening the newly-formed regiments 
boarded trains for the front. At their departure the 
excitement bordered upon public hysteria. Towns- 
folk and recruits vied with each other in cheering 
and waving, but an occasional sigh and frown be- 
trayed the fear and foreboding that gripped all 
hearts. The entire populace lived upon the streets 
these days. The railway stations were the centers 
of attraction, whither the people went to greet the 
new arrivals, and to speed the departing soldiers. 
Each of the drafted men carried under his arm an 
empty cardboard box. Upon receipt of his new uni- 
form, he sent his civilian dress back to his home in 
this box, which the government delivered without 
charge. 

It was interesting to study the chalk legends 
which the men wrote upon the sides of their cars. 
"To St. Petersburg in seven days!" and "On to 



94 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 

Paris!" were the favorites. One train appeared with 
"Every mother's son kill a Frenchman!" written 
on each side. A facetious cigar dealer in Osna- 
brueck was called to the colors, but before closing 
his shop he hung over the door the sign, "Gone for 
two weeks, to visit the Louvre." 

The German newspapers were models of the 
censor's art of suppressing and perverting news. 
This habit, I found, was indulged in by the press 
of other nations, but the bias was so evident in Ger- 
many that many people refused to be guided by 
printed information, and preferred whispered ru- 
mors to printed despatches. Favorable rumors were 
given the position of semi-official bulletins, and ad- 
verse news, if it appeared at all, was buried deeply 
under an imposing pile of victories. 

"But do the German people want war?" I asked 
an aged village patriarch before I left the country 
district. He had been crippled at Sedan, and was, 
to his villagers, an authority on things military. He 
answered : 

"Nay, Junger. There are those here who desire 
war, but they are not good Germans. They rule our 
land and us. If our gracious emperor could see the 
destruction and havoc that war has already caused 
this little village, in which not a shot has been fired, 
he would do all he could to prevent it." 

As I looked over the neglected country, crying 
aloud in its dire need of husbanding, as I heard the 
sobbing of women in the cottages, and as I thought 
of the future, I heartily agreed with him. 



AT LARGE IN GERM ANY % 

The route to Holland was well worn by troop 
trains. In fact, the only manner in which one could 
travel was to squeeze into a compartment stuffed 
with recruits— and speak as little English as pos- 
sible. No passengers could board the trains until 
the troops were seated comfortably. Women and 
children were permitted to take what seats remained, 
or, with their escorts, to stand. There were no 
through trains. It took me three days to make the 
journey from Osnabrueck to Rotterdam, which is or- 
dinarily a five-hour trip. It was necessary to make 
nine changes, for the trains all went in one general 
direction — to the front. 

At each station, the troop trains awaited a tele- 
graph despatch that the track was clear and that it 
was safe to proceed. It was feared that bombs had 
been laid under the rails, and no chances were taken. 
The trainmen, at best over-officious in the conscious- 
ness of their much-uniformed position, were now 
unbearable. Each acted as though he were a chief 
of staff. All travelers were compelled to show their 
papers, many were searched and examined closely as 
to their business. In certain localities, travelers had 
to wait a week or more, until the first movement of 
troops had been effected before they could board 
trains. 

No mail could leave or enter the country unless 
it were unsealed and written in German. Letters 
that did not meet such conditions were promptly 
destroyed. In these days strangers were unpopular 
everywhere. Travelers leaving the country were not 



96 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 

permitted to go from the station platform when 
making a change in trains, for they were not wanted 
in the towns. At a border stop, where I was com- 
pelled to spend the night, I was honorably escorted 
to the village hotel by a railway officer. I soon found 
that his company and assistance were not bestowed 
out of kindliness nor for the tip, (which, however, 
he did not deny himself) but rather to make sure that 
I was what I purported to be — an artless. Average 
American. He engaged in conversation with me in 
the hallway of the inn, and skillfully persuaded me 
to show him my passport. After he had made his 
inspection, he bid me a good night. 

At the little village of Bentheim, where I made 
my adieux to German soil, I slipped out of the depot 
with some other Americans, to enjoy a few moments 
of freedom. At every street corner, armed guards 
paced to and fro. Our advent caused much muttered 
conversation amongst them, and as we noticed their 
looks darkening, we hastened to display our pass- 
ports. We thought it best to do this without any in- 
vitation, rather than to risk facing the ugly end 
of a carbine in the hands of an over-patriotic 
German. 

As our train drew into the Dutch town of Olden- 
zaal, the worried expressions on the faces of nervous 
tourists and their fretting wives melted into a 
genial glow of relief and relaxation. Each one of 
them had a tale of horror, which, like Jack-the-giant- 
killer's beanstalk, would grow wondrously over 
night. Many were the ears back home which would 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 97 

tingle at their recitals! In Holland, too, the train 
service was demoralized. The schedules were made 
up daily. No one knew in advance when and where 
the trains were going. On the way to Rotterdam, 
I cruised over all Holland, and it was, I believe, only 
by blind fortune that I was not also conveyed to the 
Dutch Indies in my attempts to reach the port. 

After a sojourn in this isle of safety until 
steamer accommodations could be arranged for, (in 
rivalry with a multitude of other Americans) I bade 
a farewell to war-mad Europe, and turned my eyes 
westward. 

Holland is a mute sufferer, helpless in her weak 
position. The watery streets of Rotterdam were 
stagnant. Mile upon mile, along the once-busy 
Maas, the idle barges and steamers are moored. The 
streets are thronged with jobless sailors and barge- 
men. They collect in silent groups upon the quays, 
waiting and hoping. Huge stacks of baled merchan- 
dise stood ready for the opening of trade, but they 
were long standing and well tanned before they 
moved. 

The Dutch army was, since the first days of war, 
in a continued state of mobilization. One half of the 
eligible men in the tiny kingdom were called upon 
to pace their frontiers. The government allows the 
men to draw lots, before calling them into service. 
Tickets, double in number than the required force, 
are prepared. The men then draw their slips, and 



98 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 



those who pick a number higher than half the total 
are required to serve their colors. 

Quite naturally, at such a time and in such a 
place, one heard many and terrible tales of per- 
sonal adventure. Without employing Yankee skepti- 
cism overmuch, I found that many were to be dis- 
carded as delirious fancies. Most of these yarns of 
personal experience which, like bad coins, were cir- 
culated among the small change of many travelers, 
were of too strong a national bias. They tipped too 
much to one side or another to hold a great deal of 
truth. 

One old couple, however, were truly pitiful vic- 
tims of circumstances. Both man and wife were past 
sixty-five, and led a retired life in Belgium, whither 
they had moved from Germany long before. Their 
only son lived in Germany, and was an officer in the 
army when called to his colors. During the first 
week of the war, the aged husband was in a hospital 
where he was nursed by his wife. Before he had 
fully recovered, he and his wife were given twelve 
hours in which to leave the country. They went 
home to collect their personal property, and found 
the house razed to the ground. The enraged Bel- 
gians recognized them, and it was only by the aid 
cf a Belgian officer, a friend of the retired gentle- 
man, that their lives were saved. They traveled into 
Holland in a cart, and lived in a Rotterdam hotel 
until the man's health permitted him to come to 
America and begin life over again— at sixty-five! 
Not a single word of hate or complaint did either of 



AT LARGE IN GERMANY 99 

them make against their condition. They seemed to 
appreciate the point of view of the Belgians, and 
with dry eyes looked upon the veiled future. "If 
I only had known," said the old man, "if I only had 
known! I might have been able to bring more than 
a pocketful of money for my Frau and self." One 
land they had deserted, another had foresworn them, 
yet they turned to a third fatherland with courageous 
hope. 

As we steamed into the English channel under a 
huge flag of the Netherlands, v/e were approached 
and stopped by a cordon of British torpedo destroy- 
ers. All hearts stopped beating, for the ship slowly 
turned around, and headed back upon her churning 
wake. We soon reslimed our course, however, after 
being inspected by naval officers, but were compelled 
to creep under the pale Dover cliffs, close to the 
shore, for the free-way was studded with mines. 
Within the stone breakwater at Dover, a host of 
grey, sinister battlecraft lay waiting, with fires up, 
in readiness for instant encounter. The little har- 
bor resembled a hornet nest ; once the scene of thriv- 
ing commerce, and now dark beneath the pall of 
Mars. 

Slowly the humped hills of England slid be- 
hind the deepening waters. Now Europe was gone; 
a thing of the past. Before was the open sea; be- 
yond, America. 



100 AT LARGE IN GERMANY 

I had been to Europe. I had seen Germany, in- 
side and out. I had gazed upon one short scene of 
the great tragedy of our century. 

Reader, I met you first at a wharf in Hoboken. 
I now leave you, at the wonder-gate of the New 
World, just within sight of the Statue of Liberty. 
If you hear a strange mixture of the Doxology and 
Star Spangled Banner bursting from my parted lips, 
smile not — it is because I am the Average American ! 



so HERE THEN ENDETH "AT LARGE IN GERMANY," 
AN ACCOUNT OF THE AVERAGE AMERICAN'S SUMMER 
ABROAD, AS WRITTEN BY ROBERT BOLWELL AND 
DONE INTO A BOOK FOR HIM BY CHARLES J. ROSEN. 
IN THE MONTH OF MAY, IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD. 
NINETEEN HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN 



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